Doctors shouldn't drink
by LollyMc
Summary: John Watson discovers he is far too old to go out on the town and far too gullible to have such a fluent liar as Sherlock Holmes as a friend. Silly little drabble ;


The first thing John Watson realised was that his arm was dead. This would have been quite a mundane fact if the world's only consulting detective hadn't happened to be lying on top of it.

The second thing he noticed was that he was not in his own bed and was still wearing all his clothes, minus shoes, which had been kicked onto the floor of his flatmate's bedroom floor.

With a start, John jerked up, then wished vehemently that he hadn't when a searing pain jolted through his right shoulder.

"Shit."

The army doctor rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and shook Sherlock Holmes off of him. It took him several minutes quiet thinking to place the previous night's events. Drink had been involved, _that_ was for sure. The pulsing, banging in his temples reminded him all too well that he really was getting too old for vodka shots. Jesus, _vodka shots_? He berated himself and turned again to look at the peacefully snoring man next to him.

Sighing and manoeuvring himself so as not to wake Sherlock, John got gingerly out of bed and traipsed downstairs to get a cup of tea. He pondered asking Mrs Hudson to do it, but thought that might be pushing it a little too far.

As the kettle boiled John let himself flop into an armchair and racked his brains. OK, so they had gone out drinking. Or had they stayed in? No. They'd definitely gone out, John could remember loud music and flashing lights...

And people dancing in cages...

And gyrating men...

And _dear mother of our lord Jesus Christ _they'd gone to a gay bar.

A _gay _bar.

Together.

The kettle whistled loudly, shrilly announcing its readiness but John was rooted to his seat, aching head resting in his hands. Half a minute later Sherlock appeared, dressed, looking fresh as a bloody daisy. The younger man smirked at John as he went to get the kettle.

"Hung over?" he asked, again letting a smile play about his lips.

"Why on earth did we go to...go out last night?" John mumbled, face reddening to a deep beetroot.

"We were celebrating," Sherlock chimed, setting two cups of tea down in an unusually careful manner.

"Celebrating what exactly?" John said, reaching for the steaming brew.

"I'll tell you once you've asked the question."

"What question?" John was starting to get really ticked off, he was in no mood for this.

"Ergh-ergh," Sherlock imitating the Family Fortunes buzzer, "Try again."

John was really quite angry now and he suppressed the all too familiar urge to knock Sherlock one.

"Holmes," he growled, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Temper, temper," Sherlock admonished, wagging a finger, "I would have thought the question would be obvious, elementary even."

"_Sherlock..._"

The detective feigned terror and then sighed, "Shouldn't the first thing that came into your mind have been: why am I in bed with my dear friend and now lover, Sherlock Holmes?"

John blanched and the room span alarmingly. They hadn't...had they? He was pretty sure he wasn't that way inclined, although he could certainly admit that his flatmate was attractive, the high cheekbones, the pale blue eyes that were capable of much more emotion than Sherlock pretended.

The doctor cleared his throat, making absolutely sure he didn't make eye contact with him and instead fixedlt staring at the pattern on the china cups. Ducks and pigs, how quaint.

"We didn't though. I mean, urr, we had our clothes on..."

Sherlock tutted and when he spoke his voice was thick with remorse, "Oh John, I thought you would remember. Did I mean that little to you..."

John's head had turned into a samba performance and the pain in his shoulder was getting worse by the second. He really was in no fit state to process Sherlock's cryptic conversations so he let the younger man babble on and tried to concentrate on the solid facts. John was 99% that they hadn't...been together, but then again if he was this hungover, he knew they must have drunk a _lot_ of booze.

"...and that third nipple of yours, it's really something isn't it?" At this point the detective burst into raucous laughs and jumped out of his chair, slapping his colleague and friend on the shoulder, causing John a considerable amount of pain.

"You are so fantastically easy to wind up Dr John Watson," he said with a manic grin.

"And you thought there were two planets," he grumbled angrily.

"Physics – shmysics. Anyway," Sherlock drained his cup and stood, hands on hips looking ridiculous and at the same time rather striking, "You asked what we were celebrating-"

John interrupted him, "Actually, what I really wanted to know was why we went to gay bar,"

That was dismissed by a flick of the hand and Sherlock continued with a dramatic pause, "We were celebrating...a new case!"

"Yippee," John said, with the enthusiasm of a condemned man.

Sherlock glared at him and then said, with a disdainful sniff, "Go take a shower then get dressed. We're going to Scotland Yard."

As John turned on the hot water and let it ease his aching body he heard his supposed friend yell happily from the other room.

"HA! You believed me. Perhaps you wish it was true! This is excellent. I think Lestrade will enjoy this anecdote."

The doctor was still grinding his teeth and swearing softly when they hopped out of their taxi at the police station.


End file.
